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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22930777">Fight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintJam/pseuds/MintJam'>MintJam</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Fight AU [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Peaky Blinders (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Emotions, Eventual Smut, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Repressed Feelings, Slow Burn, very very vague</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:55:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,650</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22930777</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintJam/pseuds/MintJam</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He's not really sure why he's indulging this prick with his sad eyes and strange silences. Actually, that's not true. He knows exactly why he's indulging him. But it's for all the wrong fucking reasons ain't it?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Fight AU [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2010994</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>100</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>291</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Sholomons Prompt Fest 2019</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/mobile_mom/gifts">mobile_mom</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A very (very) late entry for the Sholomons prompt fest. Modern AU. Totally out of my normal sphere of...anything really. Written for a prompt by @mobile_mom. (Sorry if I've not entirely followed your plot but, as I may have screamed once or twice, this has given me hell!!!!!!)  Not to mentioned turned into a rather a long thing. I hope you enjoy.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>I. Alfie</strong>
</p><p>Alfie's sparring with a young lad from Islington when he notices Olly hovering by the ropes. Honestly, can his staff not handle things for five fucking minutes? You'd think that as the owner of a gym-come-martial-arts-club he’d manage to fit in a decent number of bouts, but no, there's always something else to be done. "What is it Ol?" he says without looking over, not stupid enough to take his eyes off the kid in front of him, who's just itching to get in another jab. "I'm kind of busy here."</p><p>"There's a guy at reception wants to talk to the boss."</p><p>"What's up, he tripped over a loose tile in the changing rooms?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>"Wants a discount?"</p><p>"No, I—"</p><p>"Then bloody deal with it Olly, I'll be done in ten."</p><p>"He's quite insistent," Olly tries again. Alfie turns to look in the direction of reception and whoever it is that Olly can't deal with by himself. As he does so, Richie—the lad he is currently facing, and who Alfie has trained since he was a 14 year old reprobate—lands a punch to Alfie's right temple that sends him flying across the canvas on his arse. In fairness, it was a good shot, but that doesn't mean he's any less furious at being caught off guard.</p><p>"Bloody hell Olly," he gasps as Richie leans down to help him up, undeniably delighted with himself. "Yeah, alright, well done, Rich," he says, spitting his gumshield into his glove. "Pick your bloody moments don't you?" he says to Olly. "Where is he then?"</p><p>They wander over to the front desk, Alfie bracing himself for whatever arsehole has insisted upon seeing him (because let's face it, no one ever asks to see the manager because they're happy, do they?) If some cunt has come to complain about his gym or his staff then they'd better have a damn good story to tell. Alfie's not a big believer in the 'customer's always right' philosophy of business; his gym attracts people who want to put the effort in—complainers don't tend to last long.</p><p>"Sorry, what was it that Olly here couldn't help you with?" he says, wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm whilst Olly tries to pull his gloves off. Alfie looks up to see the most striking pair of eyes he's seen in a long time. They're impossibly blue, which should probably be the first thing he notices, except that it isn't, because the first thing he notices is how bloody hard they look. And sad.</p><p>"Are you the manager?"</p><p>"I'm the owner."</p><p>"Good," nods blue eyes, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his expensive-looking coat. He doesn't say anything else, just holds eye contact as if he's expecting Alfie to magically discern what he bloody well wants. Alfie stares back, trying his damndest not to fill the stretched silence, despite his natural instincts. He has the disconcerting feeling that he's a fish swimming around a sparkly, shimmery little fly it knows it shouldn't eat because, well, it looks a bit suspicious, don't it? A bit <em>too</em> pretty. Could be dangerous.</p><p>"I'm also the manager," he adds, when his compulsion to fill the void gets the better of him. "And the head coach, and the bloke who lives upstairs. Will that do ya?"</p><p>"Heard you run the best kids classes," blue eyes says.</p><p>"I like to think so, yeah."</p><p>"Who runs them?"</p><p>"Yeah, that'll be me an 'all," Alfie answers with a huff. "Richie, over there helps out. He's good with kids." The man looks over towards the ring again, staring intently at Richie, who's now sparring with another lad, before dragging his gaze slowly back to Alfie.</p><p>"Good with a left hook, too," he says, looking at Alfie's right temple where no doubt there is a rosy, red mark blooming.</p><p>Either this bloke is utterly devoid of social skills, or he's being deliberately obnoxious. Well, two can play that game. "And why did you need to see me in particular?" Alfie can't help but ask.</p><p>"Because I don't hand my son over to just anyone."</p><p>"Right. Well I don't take on just anyone either. So you'd best bring him in."</p><p>"I did," the guy says, nodding towards a row of chairs near the front doors. Sure enough there sits another pair of mournful, blue eyes. "But I'd like a word first. In private."</p><p>"Yeah sure," Alfie says. He's not really sure why he's indulging this prick with his sad eyes and strange silences. Actually, that's not true. He knows exactly why he's indulging him. But it's for all the wrong fucking reasons ain't it?</p><p>"Why don't you go and get the lad a drink?" Alfie says, turning to Olly. "I'll take Mr, er..."</p><p>"Shelby,"</p><p>"I'll take Mr Shelby here to my office." And alright, yeah, so he's fucking well bitten. It was inevitable really, which even Olly can see, judging by the way his eyebrows shoot up in amusement. Alfie chooses to ignore it.</p><p>Once they're in his small office, walls lined with framed-photographs of his various protégés at competitions and tournaments, Alfie holds out his hand. "Alfie Solomons," he says, before sinking back into the chair behind his desk. He gestures for his visitor to sit down too.</p><p>"Thomas Shelby," the man replies.</p><p>Alfie doesn't miss the way those eyes assess him—hold his stare just a little longer than is comfortable before taking in the rest of him. He's rather more aware than usual of being clad in nothing more than black lycra and sweat. By contrast, Shelby is dressed top to toe in designer gear: from his cashmere coat to his prada shoes by way of a very snug-fitting pair of jeans. He looks strong, in that compact, wiry sort of way. Not that Alfie's looking too closely.</p><p>"So, why do you want him fighting, then?" He hopes he's not one of those pricks who's trying to toughen up his kid to boost his own ego.</p><p>"He needs an outlet."</p><p>Alfie pauses, waiting for more. It doesn't come.</p><p>"An outlet for what?"</p><p>"I don't know exactly." Shelby's eyes are scanning the photographs on the wall behind him, like the answer might be hidden amongst them.</p><p>"You're gonna have to give me a little bit more to go on." Good job he's nice to look at because his conversational skills ain't gonna win him any awards. Jesus, it's like drawing blood from a fuckin' stone.</p><p>Shelby sighs deeply and shifts in his chair. He has the demeanour of someone who's been summoned to the headmaster's office, rather than a grown man who instigated this bloody meeting. "Lost his mum a year ago. We've moved here, new city, new school. He's had issues with a couple of kids. Low-level bullying."</p><p>"Expect your notoriety don't help," Alfie says. Because yeah, he's heard the name. Shelby doesn't flinch at the recognition.</p><p>"Expect it doesn't," is all he says; but it's the first time he looks down. Stares at his hands as he picks a nail.</p><p>There's a long silence whilst Alfie waits to see if he'll say any more. The truth of the matter is that this is <em>exactly</em> Alfie's strong suit: taking a shy kid and giving him confidence; taking a scrawny kid and making him feel strong; taking a tear-away, like Richie, and channelling that anger and energy into something positive.</p><p>"He's very quiet," Shelby adds, "Charlie."</p><p>"Like father, like son," Alfie says. Which was perhaps a bit personal . . . he usually catches shit like that before it actually slips out. Still, it's not meant to be an insult; there's an undeniable strength beneath the quietness in front of him.</p><p>"It's not the same," Shelby says. He looks directly at Alfie again. "It's like he's hidden himself. Or he's scared to be the same kid he was before. To be boisterous. Or happy. Or fucking angry. And I know he can't be the same kid, but I want him to be—" he pauses, searching for the right words, "sure of himself. That's all."</p><p>Alfie has the distinct impression Shelby could be talking about himself as much as the boy. He doesn't exactly come across as emotionally available. "You think he's angry?"</p><p>"I know he is. Has every right to be. But it's all held in."</p><p>"So, Charlie's mum. She was your wife?" Alfie asks.</p><p>"Yes. She was my wife," he answers and there's more than a hint of acid on his tongue as he fiddles with the wedding band on his left hand. Alfie would dearly love to probe further, see if he can't draw out a bit more of that sharpness, but he has the uneasy feeling that it might not take too much to make him snap.</p><p>"Sorry, can't take anything for granted these days. Just helps to know what he's dealing with. Your boy."</p><p>"He's dealing with missing his mother. And shitty kids who think they smell weakness . . . and having no idea how to feel or act. "</p><p>"And having a father who don't know how to feel or act." <em>Yeah, probably shouldn't have said that either, but fuck it, he can't help but want to dig. </em></p><p>Shelby looks up at the ceiling and breathes in sharply. If Alfie's hit a nerve he doesn't care, no point avoiding the plain bleeding obvious.</p><p>"As I said, I don't hand my son over to just anyone."</p><p>Alfie just grunts.</p><p>"He's not a victim. And I won't have him feel like one, Mr Solomons. I won't have his confidence knocked either." </p><p>"Fuckin'ell." It's Alfie's turn to feel stung, because that sounded like a threat. He leans back in his chair and shakes his head slowly. "Man like you doesn't walk in 'ere without having done his research, so I'm gonna assume, right, that you know my reputation. You know that troubled kids are my thing. I have <em>never</em> let a kid walk out that door with less confidence than he came in with."</p><p>"So, you'll train him?" Shelby asks, when they've both resumed eye contact.</p><p>"Yeah, I'll train 'im," Alfie answers. </p><p>Shelby nods, once and stands up.</p><p>"Call me Alfie."</p><p>"Thomas," he replies as they shake hands again.</p><p>*</p><p>Olly is waiting just outside the office with the kid, who looks mightily relieved to see his father again. Alfie immediately squats down to his height.</p><p>"Hello. I'm Alfie. What's your name, eh?"</p><p>"Charlie," says the boy quietly, reaching for his dad's hand.</p><p>"And you fancy learning some skills is that right?"</p><p>The boy just looks up at his father, as if he doesn't know how to answer. Silence lingers between them but the tension is palpable.</p><p>"Let me guess. Your dad thinks this is a good idea, but you're not too sure. Hmm?"</p><p>Charlie nods shyly.</p><p>"Well, let me see, how old are you, eh? Gotta be about 9, right?" Alfie knows full well he's younger but, sure enough, a shy smile cracks on Charlie's face as he shakes his head.</p><p>"No? Ten then." Another shake and an even wider smile. "I'm losing my touch. You'd better tell me."</p><p>Charlie holds up seven fingers and Alfie makes a show of miscounting them. "Eight," he says, "I was gonna say eight!"<br/>
"Seven," Charlie giggles. "You can't count!"</p><p>"Just as well I teach martial arts and not maths then, innit?"</p><p>Charlie squeezes against his father's leg.</p><p>"Well, Charlie, seven is the perfect age to start, did you know that?" Alfie has to stand up again, squatting like this is no good for his knees. "As a matter of fact, I have a kids' class starting in ten minutes. You wanna stay and watch?"</p><p>Charlie looks up at his dad. "No harm in watching, eh?" Thomas says.</p><p>The kid's eyes look just like his father's. Sad and suspicious and unbelievably blue. Alfie might as well be looking at a pair of abandoned puppies. He's a sucker for a sob story at the best of times, but when you throw in those cheekbones and that air of hardened resignation, well, it's his achilles heel alright. He likes nothing more than a challenge. </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>II. Ada</strong>
</p><p>Sometimes Ada wonders whether this whole situation—having Tommy and Charlie living at hers—is actually helping. It had seemed a good idea at the time; shortly after the accident, when Tommy was barely able to <em>speak</em> let alone look anyone in the eye. She remembered that feeling so well; when the enormity of the loss was still sinking in and the only thing worse than the gaping whole in your heart was other people's pity.</p><p>"Move in," she'd said, as she'd sat in his study in that miserable house in Warwickshire. She hadn't thought it through at all, but in that moment it had all seemed terribly clear. "It'll do Charlie good to have another kid around. And I'll have someone to drink with."</p><p>He looked up at her. Didn't smile, but it was acknowledgement of the offer at least. It was more than anyone had got out of him for the past six days.</p><p>"I know you Tom, you need to work. You can expand the London business whilst you're at it. And I can help; I know people. I'm going stir crazy at that bloody charity anyway."</p><p>A week later he and Charlie had arrived on the doorstep and have been here ever since. Tommy had thrown himself into the business, as she'd known he would, and as the expansion plans had started to pay off he'd slowly ceased to drown himself in booze and pills. He's even had some of his old swagger back these past weeks—which hasn't gone unnoticed by certain mothers at the boys' school, even if the way they press their manicured hands to Ada's arm and ask how her brother's doing makes her want to spit in their faces. "Poor man, such a tragedy," Felix Monroe-Brown's mother had said one morning, barely bothering to conceal her delight at the eligibility that came with said tragedy. "I do hope he'll be able to move on. . . for little Charlie's sake as much as anything." God, Ada hated her—from the false concern to the false-tits beneath her cashmere sweaters—but she had to admit the woman had come up with a good idea. A gym whose owner specialised in helping troubled kids. It was worth a try, because Charlie was certainly troubled.  </p><p>"Just think about it," Ada had said that evening, when she'd handed Tom the business card. "Some of the mothers seem to think he's very good," <em>no need to point out which mothers exactly and end this conversation before it's started</em>. "This Solomons character. He's supposed to have a way with kids. With troubled kids especially—" </p><p>"He's not fucking troubled—" Tommy had started.</p><p>"I know that, Tom, but it's not been <em>easy</em> for him, has it? Kids are fucking cruel."</p><p>"I know that. Little shits."</p><p>"Maybe this would give him some confidence? New friends? Can't be any worse than that useless therapist, can it?"</p><p>Since then, he and Charlie have disappeared at 5pm every Friday to visit the mixed-martial-arts gym. In all honesty, Ada's been surprised by Tommy's level of commitment; he's actually been finishing work early and taking Charlie himself, rather than leaving it to the nanny. They both come home with a spring in their step; Charlie yabbering excitedly and practicing his latest moves on Karl. Tommy with a smile in his eyes and more relaxed than she's seen him in a long time. He's probably lapping up the doe-eyed looks of whatever simpering cashmere-clad mothers are waiting on the sidelines, Ada guesses. God, she hopes Monroe-Brown isn't one of them; feigning interest in Charlie's progress whilst smattering the conversation with talk of her divorce. She'll kick herself if he ends up dating someone like that.</p><p>This particular Friday afternoon though, Charlie had refused to go. For no apparent reason whatsoever (other than being a seven year old child, which actually is reason enough for almost anything) he threw a full-on, door-slamming, kicking, screaming tantrum. Ada had watched Tommy's patience running out and the suggestion had been out of her mouth before she could filter it.</p><p>"Why don't you join in, Tom?" she'd said. "Do the class <em>with</em> him? You said other parents do."</p><p>Of course Charlie was delighted at this suggestion and stopped shouting, looking up at his father with huge, expectant eyes. Tommy glared at his sister with such daggers that she almost had to look away.</p><p>"What the fuck am I supposed to wear?" he cursed as he ran upstairs to change out of his work clothes. It was a strange question coming from the man who took up nearly as much wardrobe space as she did.</p><p>"Erm . . . a tracksuit perhaps?" she rolled her eyes.</p><p>"It'll do you some good, to look after yourself," she shouted as he and Charlie got in the car, slamming the door loudly behind him.</p><p>*</p><p>Tommy looks anything but happy when he and Charlie get home that evening. He storms downstairs once Charlie's in bed and heads straight for the kitchen. Ada's curled up on the sofa, half-watching some I'm-a-celebrity-pay-me-and-I'll-make-an-arse-of-myself-on-telly nonsense, and half reading a journal on feminist economics. (Life is all about balance).</p><p>"Where's the wine I opened last night?" Tommy asks. He's in a foul mood.</p><p>"I finished it," Ada replies.</p><p>Silence ensues, punctuated only by the sound of bottles being clinked and manhandled in the drinks-cupboard.</p><p>"There's more Pinot on the bottom shelf," she calls, without looking up. "Bring me a glass while you're at it."</p><p>He wanders into the living room and pours her wine before throwing himself into an armchair and necking half his glass in one mouthful.</p><p>"So, how was fight-club?" she asks.</p><p>"It's a gym, Ada."</p><p>"OK, so how was the gym, then?"</p><p>Tommy sighs and closes his eyes but doesn't answer.</p><p>"Something up, Tom?" she asks, sipping her wine.</p><p>"I don't wanna talk about it."</p><p>"Is everything OK? Is Charlie OK?"</p><p>"Charlie's fine, Ada. Just . . . it was fucking humiliating, alright? I nearly fainted."</p><p>She puts the book down and tries very hard to hide the way the corners of her mouth are tipping upwards. The great Thomas Shelby showing weakness in front of his fellow-man. "How nearly?" she asks, squinting at him.</p><p>"I fell over. Had to sit down. With my head between my knees."</p><p>"Have you eaten anything at all today?"</p><p>"Had sushi at lunch time."</p><p>"Tom, you can't go and workout on a few bits of raw fish."</p><p>"I wasn't fucking planning on working out, was I? That was someone else's brilliant idea." He flashes her a cold glare.</p><p>"Sorry," she whispers.</p><p>"Besides, it was a lot harder than it looked. He's fucking fit."</p><p>"Who?"</p><p>"Alfie. . . Solomons," he adds quickly, but Ada's already clocked the familiarity. It's strange to hear Tommy call anyone by their first name. Apart from John or Arthur or Pol. He doesn't really have friends.</p><p>"Do you want me to make you something?" she asks, because there is a tiny part of her that feels guilty for driving him into this situation. (And a larger part that wants all the details). He answers with such an incredulous look—his eyebrows are practically touching his hair—it's frankly rude. "A fucking sandwich, Tommy. I'm not offering to cook a full roast, am I?"</p><p>"Thank god for that. Could do without food-poisoning."</p><p>"Charming," she huffs, throwing a cushion at him. "Seriously though, you should eat something."</p><p>"S'alright. Alfie made me have some vile protein shake. And a banana."</p><p>"You hate bananas."</p><p>"I hate protein shakes too. He's lucky I didn't throw up on him."</p><p>"Now that would have been an even better story," she giggles.</p><p>"Fuck off, Ada. This is all your fault."</p><p>"Perhaps I should meet this mythical man who can get Charlie smiling and you eating."</p><p>With that Tommy leaves the room.</p><p>*</p><p>The following Friday Ada's wish comes true. Tommy is out at a business dinner and asks if she will take Charlie to his class. She magnanimously, agrees to postpone her 5 o'clock gin, but is secretly delighted to have an excuse to nose around this whole set up.</p><p>She and Karl take a seat at the sidelines (Karl refuses to be parted from his screen, which no doubt makes her look like a complete slummy-mummy but gives her the opportunity to observe without interruption). Charlie is perfectly happy to join in this week; no need for a tantrum when his key audience-member—Daddy—is absent. Ada can't help but notice Alfie's rather impressive physique; his tiny shorts leave little to the imagination. He's certainly got a way with the kids; the small group of boys seems to hang on his every word. He expects a lot and talks a lot; sprinkles every instruction with anecdotes; uses praise where it's due and dry humour where it isn't and smiles so rarely that when he finally lets a cheeky grin slip it feels like a ray of sunshine. It's the perfect blend of charm and authority and it's plain to see how desperately the kids want to please him. Sparkly eyes and charisma in spades. <em>You dark horse, Tommy Shelby.</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>III. Tommy</strong>
</p><p>Tommy lies awake, arm draped over Charlie's small form. He probably shouldn't let him in the bed like this, but he doesn't have the heart to turn him away in the middle of the night, not when he needs the closeness as much as Charlie. He watches the boy's chest rising and falling, feels the hot breath on his arm and thinks how easy it is to love him in these moments. He wishes it was this simple when he was awake; less exhausting. He has no idea how to deal with his own grief, let alone his son's. Just chin up, feet forward, keep breathing. Mostly it's worked. He's not walking around on the verge of tears—he can work and plot and plan until he forgets the heavy pain in his chest. He's always been good at looking forward rather than back and he's felt more positive of late. Charlie seems to be settling better and things might just be on the up. It could all change tomorrow of course, but for now he'll enjoy the respite.</p><p>He must fall asleep eventually, because when he wakes, Charlie is already up. Tommy wanders downstairs to find him in the kitchen, dressed for school a good hour earlier than usual.</p><p>"Can I have an egg?" the boy asks. "With soldiers?"</p><p>"Sure, champ," Tommy says, filling a pan with water. He makes himself a coffee and leans on the counter, puffing on his vape whilst he waits for the egg to boil.</p><p>Before long, Ada and Karl appear and start crashing, bleary-eyed, around the kitchen. Tommy throws Charlie a conspiratorial wink as he brings over the boiled egg and toast—they are definitely the early-risers in this household.</p><p>"Want me to take the top off?" he asks.</p><p>"No, I can do it," Charlie answers, but a few seconds later he throws his spoon on the table in frustration, muttering, "The yolk's all hard. You never do it like Mummy. Her yolks were <em>always</em> soft."</p><p>And just like that it bubbles up. Grief. Tommy's unpredictable companion, reaching inside his ribcage and grabbing a handful of everything—heart, lungs, diaphragm—and pulling them out of his stomach. Reminding him that there is no straight path from 'devastated' to 'recovered,' but a series of twisted lanes and forks that arc and bend and double back on themselves and will do forever more. </p><p>He can hear Ada offering to make Charlie another egg as he runs up the stairs, two at a time, to fetch his sports bag and head out the door. It's not fair on Charlie, he knows, but there is one thing that seems to help and right now he just wants to feel numb. </p><p>They started as a pig-headed need to prove himself, these early-morning gym sessions; after that incident in Alfie's class. But it turns out that pounding hell out of a heavy bag for twenty minutes is remarkably therapeutic—blanks his head out like nothing else—without even whiskey or drugs. </p><p>Alfie's often working-out when he arrives, and this morning is no exception. He usually wanders over to say hello, to offer some advice or chat about Charlie. When he asks after the boy he doesn't let Tommy fob him off with 'he's fines,' or 'much betters'.  He looks Tommy in the eye and asks real questions until Tommy finds himself, almost by accident, giving real answers. Maybe it's because Alfie is so removed from the rest of Tommy's life that it seems utterly pointless to lie. Maybe it's just his manner, the deep voice; the warm eyes whose colour he can't really pin down; the way he talks a lot himself. He'd make a good interrogator, Tommy thinks. The suspects wouldn't even realise they were being grilled until they looked back hours later.</p><p>Which is precisely why he doesn't want to talk to Alfie this morning. He wants to punch the bag until his vision blurs and his knuckles ache and he can't think of anything else. When his arms are exhausted he moves onto skipping; swinging the rope double time until he's jumping so fast he can't keep count and doesn't care any more. He's certainly way past a thousand reps when he starts to feel physically sick, but he only stops when the rope catches on his foot and he finally doubles over. The hand on his back almost makes him retch and he flinches hard at the contact.</p><p>"Fuckin 'ell mate, take it easy," Alfie says, taking the rope from Tommy's hands. </p><p>Tommy looks up at Alfie, who's bent down beside him, sweating so hard he looks as if he's been outside in a thunderstorm. To be fair, they both do, he supposes as he watches sweat drip onto the mat beneath them. <em>Fucking hypocrite. </em></p><p>"Bad morning?" Alfie says in that infuriatingly perceptive way he has.</p><p>"M'fine," Tommy answers. Because he was fine, wasn't he? He has been fine. He'll be fine again in an hour. </p><p>"Yeah, course," Alfie says. "Come and have a juice."</p><p>"M'fine," Tommy repeats, but just standing upright makes him feel light-headed so he ends up giving in, letting Alfie serve him an apple, carrot and ginger juice from the small bar in the corner. At least it's not a protein shake. And then somehow he's telling Alfie about this morning and the egg. About how he doesn't even know why it got to him and how scared he is that Charlie will stop mentioning her.</p><p>"This is why people stop talking about the dead," Alfie says. "Too scared of upsetting each other. Easier to say nothing, to forget 'em completely. Less painful that way."</p><p>"You've lost someone?"</p><p>"Me mum. Me brother."</p><p>"I'm sorry."</p><p>"Was a long time ago. But it don't go away. Even if you stop talking about 'em. So you might as well carry on."</p><p>"I know. And I don't <em>want</em> everyone to stop talking about Grace the way we all stopped talking about my mother. I don't want that for Charlie. But I'm doing it already." </p><p>He finds himself sharing more . . . his guilt at getting over Grace; his plans to move out, to get him and Charlie a place of their own. His hopes that somehow he can help Charlie straddle the line that's been scrawled across his life, that will divide his childhood forever into 'before mum' and 'after mum.' How much he wants to erase that line, wants the Charlie <em>before</em> and the Charlie <em>after</em> to be one and the same person, not strangers facing opposite ways.</p><p>By the time he leaves they're even laughing about Charlie's latest obsession (badly-executed magic tricks) and Tommy feels genuinely 'fine'. Very late for work, but fine.</p><p>*</p><p>The rest of the week passes without incident, grief barely so much as tapping Tommy on the shoulder before Friday rolls around again. He and Charlie are just leaving the house when Ada whistles at him, "looking buff, Tommy. Who're you trying to impress?" Trust his sister to spot the new gym-gear.</p><p>"Fuck off Ada," he snaps.</p><p>"Daddy, you shouldn't swear," Charlie says with a shocked grin.</p><p>"No, Charlie. <em>You</em> shouldn't swear. I can do what I like."</p><p>"That's not fair. Why do I have different rules?"</p><p>"Because you're a kid. Now go. Get in the car!"</p><p>They arrive just as the class is starting; Alfie gestures them into the front row without breaking off his sentence. A dozen kids and two or three parents are warming up with squats as Alfie addresses the room.</p><p>"As the more observant among you will have noticed, Richie isn't here tonight. That's because he is on his way to Manchester for the final round of the UFC. I'm joining him there tomorrow, so, keep your fingers crossed and we may have another champion on our hands. In the meantime, I need a volunteer to help with tonight's demonstrations." His eyes scan the front row for all of two seconds before he beams, "Thomas!" and puts a hand on his shoulder, pulling him to the front. Tommy does his best to hide a scowl, because Charlie's beam couldn't be wider.</p><p>The next hour is an ordeal. He is shoved and pulled and thrown onto his back with alarming force as Alfie demonstrates various throws and holds. He's running hot from the moment he steps forward, and every touch seems to make him warmer still, until Alfie's hands feel like hot irons on his shoulders, his waist, his thighs. Every time Alfie breaks off to help the kids, Tommy tries to sneak back into line, but just as his heart-rate returns to normal Alfie hauls him to the front once more. The smell of sweat and the ripple of muscle beneath damp palms stirs something primitive in Tommy, something that's long been slumbering. There's something infuriating and electric about Alfie's strength and skill; about how easily he can overpower Tommy's futile attempts at resistance. When he's trapped on the floor, sharp puffs of breath on his neck, Tommy starts to fear his own body. By the end of the class he is flat on his stomach with one arm pulled up high and Alfie's foot in the small of his back. He has to feign cramp in order to stay on the ground, drawing his knees up and cursing the tight fit of these tracksuit-bottoms like some horny teenager.</p><p>As the kids and parents finally file out, Alfie comes over to where Tommy is still sitting and squats down, pulling Tommy's leg into his lap. "Calf or foot?" he asks, grabbing Tommy's lower leg in a firm grip.</p><p>"Foot," Tommy mumbles, instantly regretting it as Alfie pulls his trainer off and starts massaging the arch. But he's dug this bloody hole for himself hasn't he, so he sits there, flushed and silent and fucking angry, whilst Alfie kneads his muscles. It's doing nothing for the <em>actual</em> problem.</p><p>"You're tight, mate," Alfie says, as he flexes the toes none-too gently.</p><p>He could kill Alfie, with his easy manner and warm hands . . . completely oblivious to the effect he's having. He needs to get a grip, this is Charlie's gym instructor for fuck's sake. Thank Christ the boy is leaping around in the background like an excited puppy, high-kicking and spinning in a poor imitation of what he's just been taught, complete with super-hero-style sound effects. It keeps the walls from shrinking in, at least until he catches sight of Alfie's hands on his father's foot. "Mummy used to do that," he says, casually. "Didn't she, dad? On the sofa. When you were watching telly. And I was meant to be in bed." Charlie's voice is light and carefree, but Tommy feels as though a tonne of sand has been dumped on his chest. He yanks his foot away, shoving it roughly into his shoe and standing up quickly.</p><p>"Charlie," he barks. "Time to go. Now!"</p><p>Alfie puts a hand on Tommy's shoulder and insists on catching his eye. "Don't block him," is all he says.</p><p>But it's lust, not grief, that Tommy's fleeing from this evening. Thank fuck Alfie doesn't seem to see the difference.</p><p>"What were you doing up anyway, eh?" he says to his son, clipping him round the head lightly as they walk out. "Spying on us were you?"</p><p>Charlie just chuckles and waves a cheery goodbye to Alfie.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>IV. Charlie</strong>
</p><p>It's funny, missing mummy. Not funny like laughing, just funny like strange. He forgets for whole hours sometimes, until he wants to tell her something and realises he can't. It's not like he's sad all the time, not any more, but he knows that Daddy is so maybe he should be too. Sometimes it's like he's special, has a really cool story to tell, one that shocks people and makes them go quiet. The kids at school don't know what to say and it makes him feel kind of powerful, which is probably wrong and a sin. One of the boys was moaning about his mum today and then his mate looked at Charlie and kicked him and the first one looked at the floor and said, 'sorry,' really quickly. He didn't care about the mum stuff, but he did care about the 'sorry'. Mostly they don't want to play with him, the other kids, because they say he speaks funny. He knows that's a lie (because they're the ones who sound strange) so it must be because he's only a half child now with only half his parents.</p><p>Adults are different. They get weird if you tell them . . . their faces crease up and their lips go all fat and they tend to touch you on the face and start talking over you instead of <em>to</em> you. He has to be careful around them, because they take notice of what he says and tell each other. Like the time Daddy asked what he wanted for his birthday and he said, "a hug from mummy," and then Daddy's lips did the weird thing and later he overheard Aunty Ada telling Aunt Pol about it in the kitchen. They were whispering, which Mummy always said was rude, and then Uncle Arthur walked into the hallway and gave him this strange too-tight hug. He doesn't even remember saying it that clearly, but the adults all thought it was important. He tries not to say much about mummy now. Except to daddy. But only if daddy doesn't look sad.</p><p>Alfie's not like that. It's one of the reasons he likes going to the gym. That and the fact that you're allowed to kick things and punch things and shout—which are all banned at school. Alfie's kind of serious—like Daddy—but he smiles a lot more and has really kind eyes. Charlie really wants to be good at martial arts. He wants to win contests and get his picture on Alfie's wall with a medal. Sometimes, when he's at school, he pretends Alfie's watching him and then he really tries his best and imagines Alfie giving him a big slap on the back and smiling a lot. He's seen Alfie do that to Daddy. Because they seem like friends. He wants them to be friends. Daddy doesn't have many of those and Alfie even makes him laugh sometimes and that almost never happens. Daddy even drinks things he says he doesn't like when Alfie's around; smoothies and juices and stuff. Charlie usually has strawberry and banana, but Alfie never asks Daddy which one he'd like, 'because your dad doesn't know what's good for him.' </p><p>He didn't come to the gym tonight though, Daddy, because he had to do a work thing in town. Charlie was really disappointed, but in the end it was quite lucky really, because he got in a lot of trouble and Daddy would've been <em>really</em> cross. They had their class in a different room from the usual one because something was leaking. There was this big leather thing that you can jump on in the corner and this boy Harry (he thinks he's so cool because he's in year 6) jumped on it and spun around on his arms and said that they were all too small to try it. Alfie came in and told them to wait 2 minutes and to leave the horse alone and then he went out again. Charlie laughed and said it wasn't a horse, it was a bench and then Harry called him an idiot and a baby. Harry's always showing off and he can't even ride a real horse so Charlie got on it and started to do a handstand (because he's good at those, Lily Lee taught him and she can do one on the back of a real horse when it's trotting). He could tell Harry was quite impressed but then Alfie came back in and made this scary barking sort of noise and Charlie fell off and hurt himself and Harry laughed and Charlie got so angry that he just. . . punched him. Quite a few times. He's not sure how many times exactly because his head felt fuzzy and he started to cry and that made Harry laugh even more and hit him back. Until Charlie kicked him. Alfie broke them up after that and made Richie run the class. He took Charlie into the corner and made him sit down and explain what'd happened. Charlie was so worried that Alfie would be mad and that he'd tell Daddy that he cried even more and he couldn't stop.</p><p>"Are you going to stop me coming?" he'd asked, because Alfie looked really, <em>really</em> serious.  </p><p>"No, I'm not gonna stop you coming. But you can't hit other kids. Well, not unless it's a bout."</p><p>He felt a bit better when Alfie said that, but then he had to ask the other question. "Are you going to tell Daddy?" </p><p>"Well—" Alfie had paused. "I should tell 'im, yeah, I should."</p><p>"But what if he stops me coming?"</p><p>"I don't think that'll happen, Charlie."</p><p>"He likes it here," Charlie adds and Alfie smiles a little.</p><p>"How d'you know that?" he asks and Charlie isn't really sure if he should say, but it's nice that he and Daddy are friends so he guesses it won't do any harm.</p><p>"Because he smiles when he talks to you and he never normally smiles. And he drinks your drinks even though he says they taste like pond water and make him feel sick."</p><p>Alfie rubs his hand through his scratchy-looking beard and takes a deep breath. Then he says, "I tell you what, Charlie. How about you come and apologise to Harry, and I'll make sure Harry apologises for laughing?"</p><p>"Ok."</p><p>"And we won't worry your Dad, eh? Unless <em>you</em> want to tell him yourself. When you're ready."</p><p>He is a bit worried, in case Alfie changes his mind and calls Daddy, but then Karl's nanny picks him up and he forgets all about it because it's Friday night and they're having pizza and get to stay up longer than usual. </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>V. Tommy</strong>
</p><p>It's bath time on Sunday night when Tommy starts to seriously worry. Charlie has been quiet and subdued all weekend, and won't tell Tommy why.</p><p>"Charlie, how did you get this?" he says, stopping dead and staring at the large bruise on the boy's back. </p><p>"I don't know," Charlie says, entirely unconvincingly.</p><p>"It's huge, you must know."</p><p>"I fell over."</p><p>"Where, love? When?" he asks, trying to sound calm.</p><p>"I can't remember," Charlie whispers.  </p><p>"Was it someone at school?" <em>Christ</em>, he thought things had settled down, they seemed to be going much better. </p><p>"No!" he says emphatically, enough that Tommy believes him. Well, that part at least.</p><p>"Charlie, if someone's hurt you I need to know." There are other bruises too—on Charlie's arms and legs.</p><p>"Alfie said not to tell you."</p><p>"Alfie?" he says, very slowly.</p><p>"He said there was no need to tell you ..." Alarm bells are ringing in Tommy's head. He wants them to stop, because this can't be true, but they're drowning out Charlie's speech.</p><p>"What exactly did Alfie say?"</p><p>"He said there was no need to worry you." <em>Fuck. Fucking fuck</em>. "And I didn't want to be in trouble. I didn't want to make you sad."</p><p>This is his fault. Tommy's fault. He's let his guard down around that man, around his kind eyes and his rolling voice and his questions and now . . . now Charlie is keeping secrets. </p><p>"Are you feeling OK, Daddy?" Charlie asks very quietly. He looks on the brink of tears and it ignites a fire in Tommy's guts. "Are you cross with me, Daddy?" Tommy looks from the bruise to Charlie's worried face and back again and then the rage just rushes through him.</p><p>"Ada!" he yells so loudly that Charlie flinches. Ada looks at him from the hallway, "is everything alright, Tommy?"</p><p>"No. But it soon will be. Be a good boy, Charlie. you're not in trouble, eh? Aunty Ada's going to finish bedtime. I need to nip out." He's been so fucking stupid. Why did he get so close? Why didn't he come to the session on Friday? He's been distracted . . . let himself enjoy something. Someone. He's been blind because he wanted to be.</p><p>He drives through two sets of red lights on his way to the gym and throws his car on the pavement outside. He storms round to the side of the building and the door that leads to Alfie's flat, ringing the buzzer 4, 5 times until he hears Alfie's voice on the intercom. "Fuckin' ell, alright, calm down, who is it?"</p><p>"Tommy Shelby," he says as calmly as he can manage.</p><p>"Thomas?" the disembodied but unmistakable voice repeats.</p><p>He sounds confused but another buzz and a click follows as the heavy outer door unlocks to reveal a tiny hallway, and a flight of stairs leading directly up to the flat's front door. Tommy storms the stairs two at a time, and throws himself at Alfie just as the front door opens. Alfie's taken by surprise, but not for long. He tackles Tommy in a move that sends them both tumbling painfully backwards and down the carpeted stairs. Tommy's so winded when he comes to a stop that he doesn't know which way is up. Alfie has no such problem, is on his feet within seconds, fists balled in Tommy's hoody, dragging him up from the floor and slamming his back against the wall. The fury Tommy feels is matched only by what he sees in Alfie's eyes.</p><p>"What the fucking <em>fuck</em>?" Alfie snarls, as Tommy struggles to get his breath back.</p><p>"Keep your hands off my son," Tommy pants.</p><p>Alfie already looks half-mad with rage, but the accusation seems to stop him in his tracks and something passes across his pupils that distorts his face entirely. "All those fucking mornings. The coffees. The questions," Tommy says.</p><p>Alfie's eyes twitch as they bore into Tommy's—looking from his right eye to his left and back again—his hands still tightly twisted against Tommy's chest<em>.</em></p><p>“Guess I made an easy target, eh? The sad middle-aged widower who lives with his fucking sister?”</p><p>“Tommy. Don’t be a prick.”</p><p>“You were just trying to get close to him, eh?” Tommy stutters, but he’s already starting to question himself.</p><p>"I was trying to get close to <em>you</em>. You fuckwit. Not your goddamn son. <em>You</em>."</p><p>Tommy's brow knits in confusion.“He’s covered in bruises."</p><p>"Fell off the fucking pommel horse, didn't he? That he weren't supposed to be on. That I'd told him to get off already."</p><p>“But—” <em>What if he’s got this wrong?</em></p><p><em>“</em>I did <em>not</em> touch your son. Understand?" Alfie twists Tommy’s hoody and slams him hard against the wall. <em>“</em>Now you listen to me very carefully. Cause I ain’t gonna say this again, right? Why do you think I do what I do, hmm? Why the <em>fuck</em> do you think I spend so much time teaching kids to look after themselves? When I could spend all my time training prize fighters? Or separating those posh bitches from their husbands’ hard-earned cash? I’d earn a darn-sight more. Have a fucking <em>think,</em> mate, and then ask me again whether I’ve laid a finger on your kid.”</p><p>Alfie's hands have started to slackened. His whole body has slackened. He looks, what . . .sad? Disappointed? </p><p>Tommy swallows hard and tries to ignore the heavy sinking feeling. He slumps down onto the bottom step and puts his head in his hands.</p><p>"He was doing a fucking handstand, mate. On the pommel horse. Before he fell off and laid into another kid with his fists. And his feet for that matter.”</p><p>“Charlie?” Tommy says, head snapping up again.</p><p>Alfie seems to be deflating, like a tyre with a slow puncture, slipping down the wall. "It was nice to see a bit of defiance in him to be honest, a bit of spark. He was fucking angry, weren’t he?"</p><p>"<em>Charlie</em> kicked someone?"</p><p>"Guess the cork must’ve popped when that kid laughed at him. I made him sit out the rest of the class but I said I wouldn't tell you. Wouldn’t get him in any more trouble.”</p><p>“But why?”</p><p>“He idolises you, mate. He was just angry. Like you said.”</p><p>"Shit," Tommy mumbles.</p><p>They stare at each other warily whilst a thousand thoughts flood Tommy’s mind . . . the way Alfie has always encouraged Tommy to come along, to join in . . . has never been alone with Charlie. God he wants to believe him. But it’s his <em>son</em>.The fragile silence is broken by Tommy’s phone ringing: Madonna’s<em> Material Girl</em> announcing that it’s Ada (he should never have let her near his phone).</p><p>“Yes?” he rasps once he’s managed to pull it from his pocket.</p><p>“Tommy, what the fuck is going on ? Charlie is distraught. He says he got into a fight and now he thinks you’ve left ‘cause your mad at him.”</p><p>“Put him on Ada."</p><p>“Where the fuck are you Tommy? You better not be doing something stupid or I swear to god—”</p><p>“Just put him on. Please.”</p><p>Several tearful minutes later Tommy is suitably convinced. He couldn’t actually feel much worse. “I’m not mad with you love, not mad at all. Everyone loses their temper sometimes, eh?”</p><p>“See where he gets it from, now” Alfie says once Tommy has hung up. “The temper.”</p><p>“I would never—” Alfie starts, “fucking never—”</p><p>“I know,” Tommy rasps, voice hoarse. “I know. I’m sorry.”</p><p>“S’alright. Just looking out for your kid. He’s lucky.”</p><p>Tommy shakes his head, because he’s a shit father and he knows it.</p><p>“Pretty good right hook an'all," Alfie says with a soft snort.</p><p>Tommy is mute, his rage sucked away like the tide, leaving an acre of empty, wet sand in its wake. Why does he fuck everything up? Turn every kind gesture, every glimmer of hope into a wasteland? There's a fire burning in his throat and he desperately swallows it down.</p><p>Alfie groans as he heaves himself up and holds a hand out for Tommy, pulling him up from the stair. “I’m sorry,” he says again.</p><p>“I was trying to get close to <em>you</em>,” Alfie repeats. There’s an awkward moment where Tommy is standing but they’re still holding hands, and then instinct overcomes his pride and he presses his forehead to Alfie’s shoulder. It’s so long since he felt this type of closeness that when Alfie’s rests one heavy hand on the back of his neck he panics. No one has held him since Grace died. He hasn’t let them. Couldn’t. Perhaps this is why—because now it’s not nearly enough—even this tight grip feels like merely a morsel when he's a man in need of a feast. He slides his hands tentatively around Alfie’s sides before encircling his waist. Alfie groans in response and whispers, “this what you need?" before pulling Tommy so tight to his chest he can feel the other man’s heart.</p><p>And then they’re kissing, slowly—eyes open, mouths soft—and it’s the most beautifully terrifying feeling. Tommy feels like his knees could give way.</p><p>“Come up,” Alfie says. “If you want to,” and of course he follows, feeling like a teenager as they stumble messily up the steep staircase into Alfie’s flat. It’s warm and dimly lit and Alfie pulls him by one hand over to the large sofa that’s just inside the door. He sits down, still holding Tommy’s hand and raises his eyebrows in question. “You want a drink?” he asks. Tommy just takes a deep breath and shakes his head as he climbs into Alfie’s lap, straddling him to resume the kiss that he so badly wants to resume. God, he’s a fucking mess, so desperate for touch, for pleasure that he’s not even holding back. Alfie’s hands are sliding under his clothes, across his stomach and chest and it feels so good to have skin on his skin and another’s breaths on his neck.</p><p>“You sure?” Alfie asks. “I can wait.”</p><p>“Stop being kind and kiss me again.” Tommy wants it so badly—the closeness, the surrender—to forget about everything else. Alfie tips him sideways, onto his back and crawls over him, and then they’re pulling at each others’ clothes, running hands under t-shirts, pulling down trousers, nestling their bodies together. Tommy bucks at the contact, hips rising up to press against the delicious weight above him. Alfie growls, “slow down, fucking <em>hell</em>,” and reaches for Tommy’s wrist, pinning it above their heads. He stares down and grinds his hips hard as he looks into Tommy’s eyes. Alfie’s every inch the fighter now, topless and muscled and sexy as hell. Arousal fires through Tommy like a physical punch and escapes through his lips as a moan. Alfie smiles and grinds against him again until Tommy closes his eyes and reaches a hand down between their bodies; he needs to even things out. Alfie just pulls his wrist back up and tuts as he captures it with his other hand.</p><p>“Just lay back,” he whispers, “and let me do this. Let someone make you feel good.” He doesn’t deserve this, he’s been such a cunt, and yet he can’t help but obey. He tests Alfie’s strength, just briefly, pushes against the man’s grip, but as soon as a hand slips into his shorts he gives up his meagre resistance. They’re kissing again and it’s so fucking good he’s giving himself away. And Alfie explores so gently—cupping Tommy’s balls, gripping his cock, smearing the seeping wetness in tiny exquisite circles just underneath the head—such a contrast to the tight control of the other hand on his wrists.</p><p>Alfie is focused and selfless, watching through half-hooded eyes as his hand elicits reactions Tommy didn’t mean to impart. Everything is perfect, the grasp, the rhythm, the tongue in his mouth. He’s aching with how perfect it is, writhing and thrusting against Alfie’s hand until he’s wound so tight it hurts. And that’s when he reaches a plateau, a beautiful plain of arousal that is just on the verge of too much. For a while he melts willingly into it, the rare absence of distraction, the intensely carnal bliss. But slowly he realises that intensity becomes too much, he's been stuck in this place for too long; he can't move forwards or backwards, can’t tip off this tortuous ledge. He tries to switch off his brain, to give himself up to the moment, to forget he’s a father or widow or boss and let Alfie finish the job. But the more those thoughts invade his head the more trapped he feels at this point; his body is desperate and willing but his frustration is blocking him now. </p><p>“Just let me, Tommy,” Alfie whispers, “you’re beautiful like this, just relax.”<span class="Apple-converted-space">  Now Alfie knows, can see that he's stuck and that just makes everything worse. H</span>e tries not to think, not to kill it. He chases the purely physical, the exquisite feel of that hand on his most tender flesh, but the harder he tries the further it gets until all he can do is give up. "I can't, I'm sorry, I can't." He bucks hard into Alfie’s hand, a resentful, angry thrust against his own inadequacy before everything disintegrates in a frustrated, gravelly roar.</p><p>“Look at me,” Alfie says, pausing the strokes of his hand. Tommy can’t, he’s so damn ashamed of himself; he’s failed at this as well. “Don't matter,” Alfie continues, “why don’t you just tell me what’s wrong?”</p><p>“Nothing, everything's perfect,” Tommy says, “it’s me. I’m just fucked in the head.”</p><p>“Just need to give yourself permission mate. To have something good again.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>VI. Alfie</strong>
</p><p>Tommy tries to flee of course, starts gathering his clothes and rubbing his eyes and searching for his keys. It’s a miracle Alfie persuades him to stay, but he knows if he lets him leave like this he might never see him again. Pride is a formidable enemy and Tommy has more than most. They lie on his battered old sofa until Tommy stops looking at the door. Alfie flicks on some shitty TV and provides an amusing commentary. Well, it might not be very amusing, but it seems to do the trick. He pulls Tommy's foot into his lap and starts mindlessly massaging the arch. But then he remembers Charlie's comment and suddenly it seems hugely insensitive. "Sorry, this was her thing, right?" he says, putting the foot gently down. </p><p>"S'OK," Tommy says quietly. "You're better at it. She was never very good."</p><p>Alfie dares a small smile at that and can't help but feel stupidly pleased. <em>Getting one over on a dead woman, how fucking pathetic is that?</em></p><p>“Stay,” Alfie says when the clock strikes twelve. He doesn’t know how this will go. “You can sleep on the sofa if you like. Won't lay another finger on you, I swear."</p><p>"Charlie," Tommy mumbles, but he doesn't start to move.</p><p>"Will be OK with your sister won't he? You look like you need the rest.” </p><p>Maybe he just needed to hear the words, to be given some sort of permission, because within ten minutes Tommy’s asleep, half undressed on Alfie’s sofa. Alfie leaves him there, with a blanket, and heads off to his bedroom alone.</p><p>
  <span class="Apple-converted-space">*</span>
</p><p>For the next few weeks Alfie pursues Tommy as if he were the difficult heroine in an old-fashioned novel, expecting to be cast off at any moment by a sullen shift of mood. There are dinners and dates and a trip to the cinema with Charlie; lunch with Tommy's sister and a disastrous shopping trip. There are Friday evening classes and numerous morning workouts and even an admittance that Tommy hates fucking juice. (Alfie takes that as a challenge of course; refuses to believe that anyone can hate 'all juices and smoothies' and proceeds to produce ever-more lurid and exotic concoctions to tempt the oh-so-discerning—if not entirely absent—taste-buds of one Thomas Michael Shelby. When Charlie and Tommy finally move into their own place, Alfie helps carry the boxes. The more he sees of how Tommy deals with the world—the authority he wields and the responsibility he feels for <em>everything</em> from family to business—the more exhausting it looks. No wonder Tommy always holds himself at the tightest ends of any emotional spectrum.</p><p>He wasn't lying when he told Tommy he wanted to take it slow. And it suited Alfie, didn't it? Because he can be a patient man when he wants something. Can watch and wait and bide his time until he has all the intelligence he needs. Until he's confident he understands just how Tommy Shelby ticks. </p><p>*</p><p>When finally they’re in Alfie’s bed it’s on Alfie’s terms entirely.</p><p>“Eyes on me, mate, brain switched off. You listen to what I say.”</p><p>And he proceeds to talk Tommy through every step of the next exquisite hour; tells him exactly where to lay and when to touch. How worthy he is . . . how smart and brave and strong. Tells him he needn’t be <em>any</em> of those things, because Alfie couldn't give a fuck. Tells him he knows where the doubt is hidden; the fear and the shame and the guilt and that Alfie lives with those things too; it's OK to share them here.   </p><p>Tells him exactly what he’s going to do and how willingly Tommy will take it. Tells Tommy how warm he feels. How pliable. How soft<em>.</em></p><p>Tells him how long he’s going to last and how much he's allowed to enjoy it. Tells him how much he likes every moan and gasp, the way Tommy clutches and clenches and writhes. Until finally Alfie’s telling him that it's time to let himself go; that he's going to come—in Alfie's arms—that he's counting down the seconds . . . three  . . . two . . .one. And <em>fuck</em> if it doesn't work like a dream, doesn't make Tommy lose all that control.</p><p>Afterwards Alfie feels like he's won something. The biggest fight of his life. And it wasn't even against himself but against someone else's self-doubt. He looks at Tommy, curled on his side, hair stuck across his face, and can't help but smile an enormous grin.</p><p>“OK?” he asks, as if he can't already tell.</p><p>"You fishing for compliments, eh?"</p><p>"Always," Alfie chuckles. Although right now that isn't true.</p><p>"Relieved," Tommy says quietly, when Alfie is drifting to sleep.</p><p>And it's not the adjective Alfie was aiming for now, he's not gonna lie about that. But if he was looking for gushing praise then he picked the wrong fuckin' man, didn't he? And if Tommy Shelby feels relieved, then Alfie will start with that.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you made it through that ridiculous amount of words then </p><p>a) I applaud you<br/>b) please let me know (because it feels very quiet round here!)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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